


A Nice Little Saturday

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Growing Old Together, M/M, Prompt Fic, writin dirty April
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 20:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18373751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: For years, they've been on the run.  They deserve some peace and quiet.  Don't they?





	A Nice Little Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> For the April “Writin’ Dirty” prompt challenge posted by teacuphuman09 on tumblr.
> 
> Thanks to Lystan, for literally writing by my side.
> 
> Day 02 prompt: Growing Old

Eames shuffles out of bed with a yawn and puts the kettle on, scratching his head and heading to the shower. They've got nothing on today, so he knows Arthur will be passed out face-first in his pillow for as long as humanly possible. So a quick shower and cuppa, then he might pop down to the coffee shop and surprise Arthur. It's Saturday, which means they made fresh scones, and if he hurries—

"Eames?! EAMES!"

Arthur's yell makes Eames' heart slam into his ribs. He's out of the shower and grabbing the gun from the bedside table before he even stops to wipe the water from his face.

"Arthur?"

The kitchen is on fire. Arthur, thank god for him, had found the small fire extinguisher Eames forgot they even owned and is spraying white foam toward the stove, countertop, and roll of paper towels which had caught fire.

It's over even before Eames can fully process what had happened, and then he's standing in his kitchen, dripping wet and bollocks in the wind, holding a gun like a twat. His racing heart rate hasn't gotten the message though, and he looks at the man he loves, in a wrinkled t-shirt and holding an empty extinguisher, and Eames' hands start to shake.

"Jesus," he breathes and puts the gun on the countertop.

Arthur coughs. "Yeah."

"You alright?"

Arthur nods and then comes to him, letting Eames fold him in his arms. "I'm okay."

Eames runs his hands over him anyway, making sure.

"It was nothing.  Sorry I made you get out of the shower."

Arthur looks embarrassed as he pulls back, but Eames holds him by the shoulders. "Don't be sorry, yeah?" He refuses to look away until Arthur nods again. "It's me and you, remember? You better fucking make me get out of the shower."

They both take a breath and look at the damage. The paper towels had unrolled and bumped into the burner, and the stove, hood, and kettle were all scorched. Eames drags a finger through the mess of foam.

"Well," he says, still feeling shaky, "guess that's one way to have a cup of tea wake you up."

Arthur breathes out a laugh and puts the extinguisher next to the gun. "I guess the smoke detector is out of batteries."

Eames hums, and because he can't help it, pulls Arthur toward him once again. Arthur goes, sinking into him a little more, and Eames feels silly but doesn't let go. They stand that way for a moment, and then Arthur shakes himself and smiles.

"Hey, I have a question. How do you feel about going stove shopping today?"

Eames tries to smile back and when Arthur pulls away to get ready for the day, Eames stands in the smoke-blackened kitchen, light-headed with relief, and wonders what the hell happened to him.

He used to be a fucking badass, he thinks as he and Arthur walk through Bed, Bath & Beyond to get an electric kettle. He used to be in a firefight at least once a month, and he's been in a Turkish prison  _twice_. He's internationally wanted, he still can't go back to Moscow, and there's a lad named Jeremy who would probably kill him if they ever crossed paths again. He has 12 different scars, he tells himself as he argues for the 70's yellow kettle over the stainless steel. Yes, his left knee aches when it rains, but that's because he'd landed wrong after he  _jumped out a window_. How many people could say that?

He looks at Arthur in the checkout, picking up cleaning supplies, AA batteries, and a shiny stainless steel kettle. He's still slim, devastatingly handsome, and deadly when he needs to be. He is also wearing his glasses today, which are nestled next to his crow's feet and underneath the adorable forehead creases Eames loves so well.

Eames doesn't feel older, but he supposes he must be. The fact that he's at a Bed, Bath & Beyond on a Saturday morning should really clue him in. If his mates from Uni could see him now.

The unsettled feeling follows him back home as they set the bags on the counter and Arthur heads off to change clothes. Eames looks down at his own jeans and tee, and finds himself aching for a mark, for a heist, for a bit of excitement. Arthur will put on an old pair of trousers and one of the free marathon shirts he had, paint-spattered or worn thin, and they will fix up the kitchen, go get a new stove, and make dinner.

And suddenly, Eames hates the whole thing.

He strides to the bedroom where Arthur is unfolding a ratty shirt and Eames rips it from his hands.

"Eames, what the—"

Eames stops his words with a kiss, his mouth hot and fierce on Arthur's. Arthur lets out a muffled, "Mmph!" as Eames backs him into the dresser.

"Eames?"

He's leaning into Eames as he says it, lifting his neck to accept the biting kisses Eames is raining down the column of his throat. But there's concern in his tone.

"Let's fuck on the floor, and buy a ridiculous car, and get plane tickets to New York."

Arthur lets out an unsteady breath as Eames works his way down his body, grappling at the button on his trousers before he just tucks his hand in the waistband and pulls as hard as he can.

The old threads snap and Arthur gasps a soft, "Hey!" before Eames swallows his complaints with his lips and works the fabric off his hips.

Eames has a hand around Arthur's stiffening cock when Arthur apparently decides he's in favor of whatever the hell is going on and attacks Eames right back. They fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs and clothing they can't get out of the way fast enough, and it's sweaty, and fast, and  _fun._

Eames grins as Arthur arches up into him and Arthur grins back, dimples full-blown and beautiful. Years of practice means he can get Arthur to begging in no time, knows all his tricks and tells, knows how sucking on this spot will make him wiggle, and this one will make him moan, and this one will make him buck.

It should be less exciting now than it was when they were having sex in cars on a job, or between Egyptian cotton sheets in Egypt. But it isn't. Because Eames knows exactly where the lube is here, and exactly how much Arthur can take, and exactly what he means when he says, "Eames!" like that and shudders apart in his arms.

The floor is hard and cold as they lay together afterward, panting and liquid-limbed. Eames' knee hurts again and he stretches it out, wincing. Arthur leans back into him and hums.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what the hell was that all about?" he says. His eyes are closed, and Eames swallows.

He drops one tender kiss on the softened lines by Arthur's eyes and runs his palm over the curve of his hip. "Nothing, darling."

Arthur opens his eyes and studies Eames, quiet and fond. There's no judgment in his gaze, and there wouldn't be even if Eames was able to verbalize the unease he's managed to waylay with Arthur's embrace.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. "New York, huh?"

Eames shrugs and stands. Sex on the floor is not as comfortable as he'd remembered. Probably why they stopped doing it when they had a perfectly good bed right there.

Arthur stands too, letting the matter drop. He picks up his ruined trousers and sets them on the bed, then retrieves the shirt Eames had thrown in his haste.

"You know," he starts, and Eames braces himself. "I was thinking the living room could use more color on the west wall."

Eames takes the shirt from him and unclenches his jaw. "Yeah?"

Arthur's frown is thoughtful as he heads for the ensuite. "Yeah. We could head to New York tomorrow, maybe drop by the MoMA. See if they have anything that looks… expendable."

Eames' eyes jerk to Arthur's. He's talking about a job. A heist. "Yeah?"

Arthur grins at the hopefulness in his voice. "Yeah. What do you say, Mr. Eames? You up for it, old man?"

Eames grins back. "Get your arse back over here and I'll show you who's an old man."


End file.
